Unlucky For Some (11 page)

The camera pulled back. “It was here in Bournemouth that the next murder took place. On the morning of the first of October, the day after Riley’s arrest, Mrs. Nora Green was battered to death in her own home. Nothing was stolen, and there was no sexual assault. But the police would not countenance the idea that they had arrested the wrong man. This murder was different, they said. Her husband wasn’t away, as the others had been—he was there with her. He said he had popped out for the morning paper, as was his habit, but the belief—not publicly stated, but very real—was that he had killed his wife in this way in the hope that it would be taken for the work of the South Coast Murderer, not knowing that he had been arrested the night before.”

Baker had followed the Bournemouth investigation to the exclusion of all else, taking lodgings in Bournemouth, having to give up his newspaper job as a result. He had pored over all the evidence available to him from the other murders, and had evolved a theory.

“I believed that the murderer had deliberately carried out his attacks in areas where the Gypsies were encamped in order that they should take the blame if necessary. That he, having seen Riley working in Mrs. Evans’s garden, had committed his features to memory in order to do exactly what he did—come forward as a witness, produce a sketch so accurate that it might have been a photograph, and throw the investigation in entirely the wrong direction. That he had used the spade Riley had been working with in order that Riley’s prints would be found on it. And I believed that his MO had changed in Bournemouth only in so much that he now needed a new scapegoat—in this case, his victim’s husband.”

Another man the public had decided was guilty of murdering his wife, Lloyd thought. Murder touched so many innocent people.

“I believed that Jason Challenger, who I now knew to be the owner of a fitted kitchen company that operated throughout the south of England, who could be anywhere along the south coast that he chose on any day he chose, for as long as he needed to be there, was the murderer. That he spent months choosing his possible victims, making certain of their habits, of when they were alone . . . But the police dismissed my theory, saying I was letting my imagination run away with me.”

Lloyd was uncomfortably aware that he would probably have said exactly the same thing.

“I began following Challenger. If I could watch him make his preparations for his next murder, I could surely convince the police. But after a few months, all I got for my pains was a court order telling me to keep away from him, or I’d go to prison. What now? If I couldn’t follow him, how could I prevent another murder?”

A picture now of Mary Shelley’s grave.

“It was here that I came to do my thinking. St. Peter’s churchyard in Bournemouth, where the ghost of Mary Shelley—someone who really knew how to let her imagination run away with her—might inspire me. Mrs. Green’s husband was still under clouds of suspicion, though no charges had been brought, Joseph Riley was serving life imprisonment, and I would go to prison if I went anywhere near Challenger. He must have been laughing his socks off.”

He must indeed, thought Lloyd.

“I was running out of time, having spent six months getting nowhere. The first of November was getting close—too close for comfort. That was when I would find out either that yet another woman had lost her life, or that having successfully framed Joseph Riley, Challenger had ceased operations, and an innocent man would continue to pay for his crimes, with no hope of proving that they had been carried out by someone else altogether.”

Baker, sitting on the steps now. “These are Bournemouth’s very own Thirty-Nine Steps. The number was selected by Bourne-mouth’s first vicar, to represent the number of Articles of Faith in the Church of England prayer book, but I was drawn to them because of their mystery connotation. If Mary Shelley couldn’t help me, perhaps John Buchan and Alfred Hitchcock could. And it was sitting here that in desperation I jotted down the years, the months, the victims, one more time, to see if I could find a geographical pattern, something that linked them. I had pored over the facts for months, and I had known that I was doing nothing that the psychological profilers and the forensic teams hadn’t already done, but I was doing it with more information, since they had abandoned their task when Riley was convicted. If I couldn’t watch the suspect, perhaps I could discover his logic. I could work out who his next victim would be, and watch her instead. But I had failed. In this last desperate attempt, I jotted down the initials of the months: J, A, S, O. The initials of the locations: T, E, B, B. And the initials of the victims: CH, AL, LE, NG . . .”

The initials were written out on the screen as he spoke them, as though they were being jotted down in a notebook.

“And I realized with a shiver of horror that Jason Tebbs Challenger was spelling his name in blood along the south coast of England.”

It still made Lloyd’s flesh creep, after all these years.

“What’s in a name? His forebears must have been challengers, and if ever anyone had issued a challenge, he had. Was I equal to that challenge? I had found my clue, my key into the mind of this man. On the first of November, he was going to kill someone with the initials ER, somewhere on the south coast, beginning with the letter S. And to find out who and where, I had to
become
Challenger. I had to find the perfect victim, just as he had.”

Baker explained how he had armed himself with phone books and electoral rolls for everywhere of any size beginning with the letter S, finally producing a short list that he had to narrow down to just one person.

“Realizing that he always wanted someone else to be suspected, I decided that he would pick Ellen Ryland, who lived in St. Austell, Cornwall, in a lesbian relationship. That seemed to me to be the setup that Challenger would find best suited to his purpose. There would be a certain amount of prejudice there from the start, and that would be reflected in the police inquiry, however hard they tried to ignore the victim’s unconventional lifestyle.

“So I stalked Ellen Ryland, until one day in October, I saw that I was not alone. Sitting, watching her from a nondescript van, was none other than Jason Tebbs Challenger. I took my now incontrovertible evidence to the police, and they arrested Challenger. His story—that someone else must be doing it using his name—came unstuck when that old blood sample finally came into its own. The previous year, the identification potential of DNA had been discovered, and by the time I made my own modest discovery, DNA testing had already been used to convict someone.”

Baker was standing outside the Old Bailey now.

“This is where, after weeks of listening to the evidence, it took the jury just two hours to convict Jason Tebbs Challenger. The circumstantial evidence was almost overwhelming on its own, but it was the tiny clue that Challenger left behind at the scene of his very first crime that proved conclusively that he was indeed the South Coast Murderer.”

When the credits had finished rolling, Lloyd switched off the TV, and looked at Judy. “Would you have done any better than they did?” he asked.

Judy shrugged. “I was unhappy, like he was, about the idea of Riley having devised the murders, so I might have been more open to suggestion, but I doubt it. I seem to remember they thought it was some weird ritual that Riley had got involved with, and I might have accepted that. Who knows?” She shivered. “But Baker should have gone to the police when he stumbled on it. What if he’d been wrong? What if Challenger hadn’t chosen Ellen Ryland? Some other ER would have died, because he kept that information to himself.”

“My initials are ER,” said Gina.

“So they are,” said Judy. “It’s just as well you didn’t live on the south coast.”

Lloyd frowned. “Are they?”

“Elizabeth Regina. I was named after Good Queen Bess—don’t ask, because I never did find out why. I think it was a private joke.”

“I didn’t know your first name was Elizabeth—why did you drop it?”

“It was my mother’s name—it was confusing. I liked Regina better, anyway. But everyone shortened it to Gina, so Gina it is.”

Judy stretched. “Am I the only person in this family who doesn’t keep their first name a secret?”

Lloyd considered that sentence construction, and decided to let it go, on his new principle of allowing third person plural when one wished to be non-gender-specific. So Judy was saved a lecture.

And he resisted the temptation to warn her to be on her guard. He was sure she was overseeing Tom’s investigation with her usual crisp efficiency. He certainly hoped she was, because Baker was no fool, and he would be watching.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

“Interview with Stephen Halliday,” said DI Finch, “Monday, twenty-first February at 10.05 a.m., in connection with the murder of Mrs. Wilma Fenton on Sunday, thirteenth February. Those present DI Tom Finch, Trainee DC Gary Sims, and Stephen Halliday.”

They had brought him in for questioning again, and this time they were taping the interview. Stephen felt apprehensive.

“You are not under arrest,” Finch said, “and can leave at any time, but I must caution you that while you do not have to answer any questions put to you, it could harm your defense if you fail to mention now something you later rely on in court, and that anything you do say may be given in evidence. You are entitled to legal representation if you wish. Free legal advice is available from the duty solicitor, or you can ask us to contact a solicitor of your choosing.”

Stephen blinked at him.

“Do you understand the caution?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not under arrest?”

“No, you’re free to leave at any time. Do you want us to contact a solicitor for you?”

It didn’t feel as if he was free to leave, but at least he wasn’t officially under arrest. “I don’t think so, thank you,” he said.

“Fine. If at any time during the interview you change your mind about that, tell us, and the interview will be terminated until a solicitor has been found for you.”

He really didn’t think he needed a solicitor, but he didn’t know why he had been brought back. He was soon to find out.

“Mrs. Fenton’s handbag had been wiped in a successful attempt to remove any fingerprints,” DI Finch said. “But your fingerprints were found in two places on her purse. Can you explain how they got there?”

Stephen swallowed. “She asked me to put the money in it, because her fingers were too cold to open it.” He explained about the purse being too small. “So I said just to keep it in the envelope, and I opened her bag, put the envelope into it, and zipped it up. I don’t know anything about anyone trying to remove fingerprints.”

The two men looked at each other, and Stephen had no idea what that look meant.

Finch looked at him for a long time, then gave a short sigh. “All right,” he said. “Interview terminated, 10.10 a.m.” He switched off the tape. “You’re free to go.”

Stephen blinked. Was that it? The interview had taken a great deal less time than all the cautioning and advising that had preceded it.

“We’ve got your clothes back from the lab,” Finch said. “You can take them away with you.”

“Does this mean you don’t suspect me anymore?”

“It means that I’m satisfied with your explanation as to how your fingerprints came to be on Mrs. Fenton’s purse.” He stood up. “But it doesn’t clear you of suspicion, Stephen, so if you really were somewhere else at nine o’clock, you’d better think about telling us where that was.”

No, thought Stephen. If they were letting him go, he didn’t need to tell them where he was.

Jack arrived at the Tulliver Inn to do his monthly service on the fruit machine, to find the lounge bar empty of either staff or customers, but he could hear Grace and Baker talking in the back, so the place wasn’t deserted, as he’d thought at first.

Baker didn’t seem to have been off the telly. All week, he’d been turning up on some news program or other. The other papers and the TV had picked up the story—the fact that someone who had done what he did with the South Coast business should have actually witnessed a murder had news value, apparently. And Baker was loving it all, you could tell. He would come on, his face somber, saying how shocked he had been, and maybe he had, but Jack doubted it.

He went over to the machine, taking with him a low stool. The control panel was low down at the back, and one of the few things he couldn’t do with his leg was kneel—if he ever fell down, it took him forever to get up again, because even kneeling on his good leg gave him problems with the other one. And, since he couldn’t kneel, he needed the stool. He could sit on it and work at the machine.

And that’s what he was doing when Grace came back into the bar, with Baker in tow. Sitting behind the tall machine, he was invisible.

“They just turned up first thing and asked him to go with them,” she was saying, and Jack could hear that she had been crying. “They had more questions to put to him.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Baker. “Where was he at nine o’clock on Sunday? Isn’t there anyone who can provide him with an alibi?”

“That’s just it—he won’t say where he was. He won’t even tell me.”

“But why not? Doesn’t he understand how serious it is?”

“He just keeps saying that since he didn’t kill her, they can’t have found any evidence to say that he did.”

Jack knew they didn’t know he was there, but he thought it best just to stay where he was.

“He would never mug anyone!” Grace shouted. “It’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t think it was a mugging,” said Tony. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but . . . well, I know the paper said that whoever it was dropped the cash when they heard me coming, but I’d swear it wasn’t dropped. It was spread out on top of her. Deliberately.”

“What—what do you think that means?” Grace’s voice trembled.

“I’ve no idea, but it makes it even less likely to have had anything to do with Stephen. I think someone was making a point about her, or about the money, or something. But try not to worry, Grace—I’ll see if I can find out what’s happening. If Stephen really did just leave her at her front door, then he’s right—they can’t have found any evidence to say otherwise.”

“What do you mean,
if
he really did just leave her?”

“Nothing, nothing. I mean that he’s told them the truth, and as long as he carries on doing that, he should be all right.”

“But they don’t arrest people for no reason!”

“Did they arrest him?”

“They took him away!”

“Yes, but did they arrest him? Did they say he was under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then he isn’t. They’re just not satisfied with what he’s told them, and if he’s refusing to tell them where he was, that’s probably why they’re questioning him again. Why on earth is he doing that?”

“I don’t know.” Grace sighed, then caught her breath. “Oh, Tony, your breakfast! I forgot all about that.”

“It’s all right—it doesn’t matter. I haven’t taken the insulin yet. And I’m quite capable of making my own breakfast. But I’d better go and do that now. Will you be all right if customers come in?”

She sniffed. “I think so.”

“Good.”

Jack waited until he was sure Baker had gone before coming out from behind the machine.

“Oh, my God!” Grace nearly fainted. “I didn’t know you were there!”

“I know—I’m sorry if I startled you. But I didn’t want to come out while you were talking.” He went over to her. “I think it might be my fault that the police are questioning Stephen,” he said.

Grace stared at him. “Your fault? How?”

“I was in the alley, too. And I heard Stephen and that woman talking to each other. The police questioned me, and I mentioned that Stephen had been with her—I didn’t think anything of it.”

Grace managed a smile. “Oh, Jack—no, it wasn’t your fault. Stephen told them that himself. No—this is something new. I just wish I knew what.”

Keith was in Mr. Waterman’s study at the Grange.

“You got the new rota for March?” asked Mr. Waterman.

“Yes, thanks. I got it on Friday. But you know I’m going on holiday at the end of this week, don’t you? I’m not back until the twentieth of March.”

“I know. I just wanted to be sure you were clear on what you had to do. When you do it is up to you.”

Keith nodded. “Yes, boss.” He was puzzled as to why he was here—the question hardly needed asking at all, never mind in person.

Mr. Waterman swiveled round and looked out of his study window, and Keith was beginning to wonder if he’d forgotten he was there when he finally spoke.

“Do you remember coming here when you were a kid?”

Keith smiled. “Oh, yes.” They had climbed trees, had bonfires, played with model powerboats on the lake. And in the cold weather, he and Ben had practically lived in the summerhouse, playing music as loud as they liked, with no one to complain. “I loved the summerhouse,” he said.

Mr. Waterman nodded, still looking out of the window. “No one uses it now,” he said. “Did Ben ever talk about me?”

Keith felt flustered. “Oh—I don’t know, Mr. Waterman. I mean—probably. You talk about your dad, don’t you? But I don’t remember.”

“Did it bother him, not having a mum?” Mr. Waterman turned back to look at him as he asked the question.

Keith was puzzled, and embarrassed, and shook his head. Ben hadn’t talked much about his mum, and he said nothing in particular about his dad. Mr. Waterman had always been friendly, and generous, and Keith couldn’t remember Ben ever complaining about him any more than all kids complained about their parents. And he had always been good to Keith, almost like a second dad, so he wanted to give him some sort of answer, because he looked like he needed one.

“He liked the lady that looked after him,” he said, and wondered if he should tell him what Ben had said about her. It couldn’t hurt, not now. “I . . . I do remember him saying he hoped you’d marry her.”

“Did he?” Mr. Waterman looked surprised, and a bit concerned. “Did it upset him when she left?”

“No,” said Keith. “No—we were teenagers by then. I mean—he was sorry to see her go, but it didn’t upset him, if you see what I mean.”

He smiled. “Okay, Keith. I’ll let you go now.”

Keith was very relieved to hear it. He’d never seen Mr. Water-man in this mood.

Tony had eaten his breakfast and was trying to escape back upstairs to his room, when Grace called him back. He closed his eyes, and turned to see her holding out a letter.

“This came this morning,” she said. “I’m sorry, but the police arresting Stephen just drove everything else out of my head.”

There wasn’t much in there to drive out, if you asked Tony. He’d already explained to her that Stephen hadn’t been arrested, so he didn’t bother this time.

“It’s got a Bartonshire postmark.”

Fan mail, he thought, taking the letter. He’d had quite a lot of fan mail the first time he’d hit the headlines. He smiled his thanks, turning and going upstairs as fast as he could, making it obvious that he didn’t want another heart to heart. Just one more week to endure her, he told himself. One more week, and his business here would be wrapped up, at least until the filming started.

In the safety of his room, he turned the key in the lock, and sat on the bed, running his thumb under the flap to open the letter. He pulled it out, read it, and then read it again. And again. Then he picked up the envelope, and looked at the postmark, but, as Grace had said, it was merely stamped with the county. No town. He swallowed, and read the letter for the fourth time, but there seemed to be no doubt about it. The murderer had written to him.

The letter was typed or—more probably—printed in upper case, as was the address label on the envelope, which had the correct postal town, being Barton, rather than Stansfield. Stoke Wes-ton was closer to Stansfield, and the Hallidays’s mail was very often addressed wrongly. Did that make it someone very local indeed?

Could it be Stephen? The police seemed to think it could, and there were a lot of unanswered questions. It was hard to cast Stephen in the role of murderer, but Tony knew from experience that murderers came in very assorted flavors, and most of them had close friends and relations who wouldn’t believe it of them. Even so, he thought, Stephen just didn’t seem to have the inner rage necessary to attack someone in that way. Of course, he did shoot foxes. Not that you needed inner rage to shoot foxes, Tony conceded, especially not on farmland, but it did show that Stephen wasn’t totally averse to killing. He smiled. What nonsense, he thought, and closed his eyes, trying to marshal his thoughts. He stayed like that for a long time, and when he opened his eyes again, he knew only two things for certain.

One, there was going to be another murder, and he had to go to the police and warn them. Two, he was going to have to stay here a little longer than he had planned.

Judy looked up as Tom knocked and came in all at once in the way he always had.

“I’ve let him go, guv. What he told us accounted for his prints being on the purse, and if he had wiped the bag, he’d hardly have overlooked the purse, would he? Anyway, there was still money in it—I don’t think the assailant touched it, which is why he didn’t wipe it clean.”

Judy frowned slightly. “He was the last person seen with her, he won’t tell us where he was from half past eight to nine o’clock, and now we’ve found his fingerprints at the scene, despite an attempt to remove them. That sounds quite like evidence to me, Tom. Bringing him in might have rattled him enough to make him tell us where he was, so we could cross him off, if nothing else.”

Tom sat down. “Not many muggers take the time to wipe prints.”

“I know,” she said. “But I think we’ve established that this isn’t what you’d call a professional mugging. And Stephen isn’t a professional mugger, so that’s hardly an argument.”

A week on from Mrs. Fenton’s death, and they were no further forward. Conventional wisdom said that if you had no leads within three days, you weren’t going to get any, and Judy was beginning to believe it. Forensics had found no sign of Halliday or anyone else having been in the flat, no reason to believe Mrs. Fenton was killed in there and dragged outside, and no traces of blood on anything that could conceivably have been used as the murder weapon. She hadn’t thought there would be; it had always been a long shot. Apart from anything else, no one heard the dog barking, and the neighbor had said she was sure Heinz would have barked if anything bad had been happening to Mrs. Fenton where he could see it. She had decided to keep Heinz herself, Mrs. Fenton’s brother having said she could, and Judy was pleased about that.

“I want the house-to-house inquiries extended to include the houses at the top of Murchison Place as well as the flats above it,” she said.